


Ineffable Breadcrumbs

by Mirilya



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Fluff, Gardener Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Stars, naps, ngk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2020-12-08 00:22:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20984882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirilya/pseuds/Mirilya
Summary: Drabbles at various stages of completion as a way to get myself writing again. Edit: started for Fictober 2019, I'll just add small bits as I write them.





	1. Day 1 - Leaves

**Author's Note:**

> These may very well be OOC, abysmally historically inaccurate, or just dumb gags. I may go back and edit them, or I may not. Not beta'd. However it goes, we're here to have fun.

Crowley wasn’t a fan of the cold; his serpentine instincts regarded any indications of impending winter with a restless disdain. He’d suffer through it; with the exception of some of his longer sleeping spells, he always had. When the wind took on a particular degree of chill, the air somehow feeling _ crisp _ in a way that never failed to prickle at his nose in an unpleasant way, Crowley consoled himself with watching Aziraphale take to the season like a duck to water. Or like an angel to spiced cider, pumpkin-flavoured pastries, roasted chestnuts, and a sudden need to add mounds of whipped cream to any hot beverage.

After a late lunch taken at Aziraphale’s insistence that they get outside and enjoy the weather for once, Crowley once again humoured the angel in taking a turn around St. James’s Park. 

“Isn’t it lovely this time of year?” Aziraphale smiled fondly, taking a sip from his takeaway cup of sweetened coffee and nodding up towards the trees, resplendent in yellows and golds.

“Mm.” Crowley merely made a noise of acknowledgment, sliding his hands into the impossibly tiny pockets on his trousers and pretending very hard not to stare in appreciation at the way the afternoon light transformed strands of Aziraphale’s white-blonde hair into burnished gold, catching on the edges of his pale eyelashes and gilding them with a purer and finer metal than any other angels wore on their skin.

A gust of wind swept up suddenly, rippling through the trees at an alarming pace and catching both of them off guard. Crowley stifled an undemonlike yelp as the cold air found its way under his jacket, pricking at his skin in ways that made him squirm, and dumped a significant number of dry leaves onto his person. Aziraphale took one look at him, leaves stuck in his hair, on his coat, and piled up in little drifts around his feet, and burst into laughter. Had it been anyone else, they’d have been picking little bits of leaves out of various crevices and orifices for the rest of their days, but the unrestrained mirth on Aziraphale’s face struck Crowley dumb in its joyous wake.

Crowley watched, helpless and cold, as Azirapahale caught his breath, blue eyes sparkling with amusement, and reached up to pick the leaves out of Crowley’s hair. Crowley’s brain fully disengaged itself at the gentle touch of Aziraphale’s fingers through his hair, only coming back to himself with a full-body shudder as Aziraphale’s fingers brushed the shell of his ear. 

“Thanks, angel,” Crowley nearly hissed as he shook himself, dislodging the rest of the leaves from his coat and shirt.

“It’s no problem at all, my dear.” Aziraphale gave him a curious look. “Shall we head back to the bookshop?”


	2. Day 2 - Blankets

“Angel?” Crowley called out into the quiet bookshop as he let himself in, a box of fresh pastries under one arm. “You here?”

Closing the door behind him, he listened carefully for any sounds of movement within the shop. In deference to a long-ignored instinct, he flicked his tongue, tasting the air for any sign that Aziraphale was around. 

_ Must’ve gone out. Wonder how long he’ll be. _

Setting the box of pastries down next to the nearly unused register, he noticed a slip of paper folded in half with his name on it in a neat script. 

_ Dearest, _

_ I’ve stepped out to look at a potential acquisition. _

_ Will be back this evening. _

_ Please make yourself comfortable, if you like. _

_ ~Aziraphale _

Crowley shrugged to himself, reassured by the note that something terrible was unlikely to have happened in his absence, and headed to the back room to make himself comfortable. Aziraphale was the owner of an incredible sofa, much more plush and luxurious than it had any right to be, and far more appealing than anything Crowley allowed to take up space in his punishingly minimalist flat. Not that he would admit it, but Crowley loved to drape himself over it in order to nap in such a soft place, basking in Aziraphale’s warm presence.

Crowley noticed with pleasure that in deference to the season, Aziraphale had draped a meticulously hand-crocheted afghan over the back of the sofa, and a stack of soft blankets had been carefully folded and placed at one end. Suddenly, Crowley wanted nothing more than to completely shift all those blankets into disarray, bury himself beneath them, and take a nap.

So he did.

Aziraphale came in some time later, still glowing over his victory - not one, but  _ three _ signed first editions scooped up from an estate sale where the sellers clearly had no idea what they were so eager to be rid of. Noticing at once the smell of delicious pastries, he made his way over to the counter - so Crowley had seen his note - and set down his new books before following the light to the back room.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Crowley, fast asleep, draped and tangled in a heap of blankets on his sofa. One bare foot stuck out over the arm of the sofa, a shock of red hair the only other part of him visible beneath a pile of golden tan and burgundy that slowly rose and fell with his breathing. 

“Hmn… angel?” A sleep-dyed murmur drifted up from inside the pile.

“Yes, Crowley, I’m right here. I see you found the blankets I left out.”

“Sss warm. Sleepin… nice.”

“I’d hoped so. Keep sleeping if you like, my dear.”

Aziraphale took a step back toward the door.

“Mmmno. Don’ go.”

Aziraphale smiled fondly and patted Crowley’s exposed foot gently, before taking a seat in the chair and miracling his new books into his hand with a gesture.

“Not to worry, dearest. I’ll be right here.”

“Mhm.”

The pastries made an excellent breakfast the next morning, once Crowley flailed himself free of his blanket prison.


	3. Day 3 - Moonlight

Two figures met in shadow, sitting on a small stone bench between hedges, the garden stretching out all around them. The moon cast her pale light over the scene, highlighting all in an ethereal glow, the edges of night-blooming flowers ghostly in their translucence, their mingled perfume sweet on the night air. Two glasses clinked together, a nightcap taken away from idle ears.

“Good to see you’ve taken off that ridiculous disguise.” Nanny Ashtoreth spoke quietly, lips brushing the edge of her glass as she took a sip.

“It’s not  _ so _ bad, is it?” For once, words spoken clearly without an exaggerated accent and outrageous teeth to match.

She looked him up and down critically, her neatly arched eyebrows drawn up in the very picture of skepticism. She could see the uncertainty in his posture and the glimmer of his eyes, and she hesitated, her lips just parted. 

“Ehm, no, it’s just… ehhhsfk...”

Aziraphale sighed, pouting. “You don’t have to say it, I know you think it’s terrible. I suppose I got carried away.”

“Oh, it’s all right, you’re an angel. I’m sure no one suspects a thing.”

“Oh, thank you. But I wonder if they wouldn’t notice if Brother Francis returned from his day off with some… improvements?”

Nanny Ashtoreth gave a noncommittal hum. “Oh, I doubt they’d mention it. Warlock might, but he’s still young.”

“Just the teeth, then?” Aziraphale peeked at her out of the corner of his eye without turning his head, gauging her reaction.

She turned to look at him full on, appraising, wondering how far her advice would actually go. “Trim the sideburns.” 

“Of course, my dear.”

“And the eyebrows.” She closed her eyes, taking a sip, glad that the darkness hid the way her cheeks flushed at the affectionate name.

“Yes, dear.”


	4. Day 4 - Fire

Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round drew his heavy cloak more tightly about him, turning in his chair to expose more of his side to the fire blazing in the hearth. Castles were a far sight more comfortable than the tents or huts he’d spent time in over the previous millennia, though the high ceilings and stonework lent themselves to terrible cold drafts. Small wonder that the ladies of the court lined their gowns in fur; Aziraphale almost regretted not presenting himself as a lady for the warmth and luxury of the garments alone, but needs must for the purpose of fomenting peace. A sword did lend its weight toward a moral argument, after all.

He turned his attention back to his book, a new codex, quietly marveling over its bound pages of hand-copied text. He’d begun to collect them in earnest over the past few centuries, and local scribes had been doing such lovely things with colour and precious metals. The fire sputtered as the main door at the other end of the hall swung open and closed just as suddenly. As he was only a guest in this castle at the king’s request, he didn’t pay much mind to the comings and goings of other guests.

Until a black-clad figure slunk its way up quietly to the fire, trying to be quiet but failing for constantly moving.

“_Crawl- Crowley?_ What on earth are _you_ doing here?”

“F- f…” Crowley attempted, his jaw clenched tightly.

“Fomenting discord, still, I have no doubt.” Aziraphale stood, indignant, leaving his book in his chair as he stalked over towards Crowley in a huff. “_Honestly_, I’ll have none of that on my watch. I can’t allow you to bring harm to anyone in this castle, where I am a _guest_-” Aziraphale stopped mid-lecture as he drew close enough to notice that Crowley was drenched from head to toe and shivering so hard he could barely stand.

“Oh, my dear boy, what happened?” Aziraphale’s temper cooled in an instant, and he began pulling layers of sodden fabric from around Crowley’s body despite his feeble protests. Crowley looked increasingly embarrassed and confused as Aziraphale fussed over and undressed him, in direct contradiction to his earlier offense to the idea that they both just sit out of their respective duties for this round. “You don’t have to-”

“Oh hush now, you’ll catch your death of cold.”

“Not as ssuch…”

“You know what I mean, it’s a lot of... paperwork.” Aziraphale refused to admit that he’d miss him if he got discorporated, but the intent was clear.

"What did you do, fall in the river?"

Crowley's silence and refusal to make eye contact was telling.

"In the middle of winter? How did you manage that?"

"...horssse. Threw me. Rude buggerss."

Aziraphale winced. "Ah, yes. Horses can be… temperamental creatures."

Crowley shifted uncomfortably.

"M'not."

"Hm?"

"Fomenting. Not anymore." He'd already been about to write his report back to head office, to the effect of 'bugger all this, better luck next century' when he'd run into the angel, so it was no trouble to add a line or two about defying agents of Good and calling the thing done. Crowley really wasn't a fan of clanking around in the cold and damp. The only bright spot was the idea that his men were also miserable, but as peasants in this feudal economy they'd be miserable like as not without him needing to be there suffering too.

"Ah. Suppose you've made enough trouble, hm? Sown the seeds of your own downfall, as it were."

"Ssomething like that. I'm a guest too now. Guess that means you win this round, angel."

At this point Crowley was down to his tunic and braies, both completely soaked. Various outer layers lay puddling on the stone floor where Aziraphale lay them out to dry near the fire. Aziraphale looked at him to grab his tunic, then paused, turning his glance to the side as if realizing for the first time he'd just spent five minutes stripping a demon in his host's living room.

"I- I think these last layers should dry quickly if you come sit in front of the fire. Here, have this. Plenty of room." Aziraphale unpinned his own cloak, warmed by the fire and his own body heat, and drew Crowley in beside him, steadfastly ignoring the chill soaking in from Crowley's wet clothes. With a thought, Aziraphale's chair realized that it had always wanted to be a padded bench, and stretched out to accommodate the both of them.

"There, isn't that better?" Aziraphale smiled nervously, suddenly unsure where to place his hands and arms.

"...it is."

Aziraphale thought he almost heard a hiss of thanks as Crowley basked in the warmth, relaxing enough that after a few minutes his shivering had stopped and his head drooped, resting gently against Aziraphale's shoulder. _Well, there's nothing to be done for it._ He retrieved his book from where it had fallen to the side of the bench, and continued reading, careful not to disturb Crowley's rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Here I am, mixing up all kinds of timelines and eras, but like the show I’m here to have fun.)


	5. Day 5 - Sweater

Aziraphale had taken up knitting during the Great War. He couldn't say why, specifically, but it had helped to have something to focus on in stressful times, and gave him something to sit and chat about with other humans. He tended to pick it up during times of trouble and drop it as soon as losing a day or two while engrossed in a book wasn't liable to turn his shop into a pile of rubble.

He'd picked it up again once working for the Dowlings - Brother Francis made a few serviceable scarves and waistcoats, nothing too fancy. Aziraphale just enjoyed the soothing feel of yarn under his fingertips, the repetitive motion and click of the needles, the challenge of making the number of stitches line up just right. He made gifts of several pairs of booties, and later pairs of socks for young Warlock.

On into Autumn, he found the gardens could be trusted to look after themselves (Nanny always seemed to have a few choice words for them, and there were miraculously no weeds to be found) and he spent more time indoors, reading and occasionally knitting.

The Apocalypse narrowly averted, Aziraphale returned to his bookshop and along with some odd new acquisitions, he found several skeins of wonderfully soft burgundy yarn. _ Adam's mother must knit_, Aziraphale considered, _ or maybe somehow learned that I like to_. He idly played with the yarn, pressing his fingers into the skein, weighing it in his hand, and realized what he'd like to make.

A week later, Crowley was over helping Aziraphale explore some of the new additions to his wine cellar. A surprised Crowley, just this side of pleasantly drunk, suddenly found a wrapped gift pressed into his hands. He blinked down at it, squeezing it through the wrapping paper slightly as if he wasn't convinced it was real.

"Whassis, Aziraphale?"

"Ah, it's a gift for you, my dear boy."

"A gift. What's the occasion?"

Aziraphale cleared his throat awkwardly. "Do I need an occasion? Please, just open it."

Crowley stopped himself just blinking at Aziraphale in confusion, and set to unwrapping it, tearing the paper with abandon.

A long, exquisitely soft knit tube slid out of the paper and into Crowley's lap. He lifted it up, admiring its color, very like the red wine they were enjoying. "It's… a scarf? Bit long. Why's it a tube?"

"Ah, you see… I know how you get in the winter, and I've seen how you like to relax in your serpent form…"

Crowley stared at him, unblinking, as the realization dawned on him.

"If it's too strange I apologise, I can rework it into something else, I just thought-"

"It's perfect, angel."

"You really think so?"

"Sure. Lemme sober up and I'll try it on."

Crowley focused hard, forcing all the wine out of his body. He'd learned the hard way that alcohol didn't mix as well with his snake form as it did with his human corporation. The last time he'd almost had a complete meltdown before managing to sober up enough to change back.

He seemed to melt out of his chair as he elongated, before drawing himself back up to coil where he'd been sitting. He nosed his way into the tube and threaded his way through it to the other side. Crowley was no mere garter snake, though the knit material stretched easily to accommodate his substantial girth. 

"Ahhh, fitsss like a glove. Thankss, angel."

Crowley's voice was much less words and more suggested meaning in this form, but no less appreciative.

"I'm glad you like it, my dear."

Crowley appreciated its softness and definitely its warmth, though he did want to get back to the drinking, and had no intention of staying a snake for too long. He had an idea.

The material seemed very stretchy, and had a lot more give than seemed strictly necessary, even for a snake his size.

_ What if _ , Crowley wondered, _ this could stretch to human size? _ All he had to do was remember the forms he'd taken before that would best fit a garment this shape, and he easily shifted back into a human form, this time with slightly wider hips, narrower waist and shoulders, a modest swell of bosom, and longer hair to complete the picture. This Miss Crowley had been very popular at jazz clubs in the 1920s, and at various times since then, but never had she had such an… interested audience.

Aziraphale tried very hard not to stare at Crowley as he finished shaping his corporation. Warm ginger curls and amber eyes picked up golden highlights in contrast to what was now a deep burgundy sweater dress, clinging to her curves and draping long nearly to the floor.

She stood up slowly, taking a delicate hold of her wine glass before taking a turn of the sitting room, admiring the way the soft yarn felt against her body with nothing underneath it, the way it cling to her curves, brushing her nipples and bum, tickling at the soft thatch of hair at the Effort between her legs. 

"Ahh, that's much better." Her eyes sparkled with mischief at the stunned look on Aziraphale's face. "You wouldn't be thinking of taking it back now, would you?" Crowley teased.


	6. Day 6 - Tranquil

Silence hung over the two figures seated on a bench, clinging to them like the heavy scent of smoke and brimstone that permeated their clothes. Silence and smoke, light as nothingness, yet tethering them to the uncertainty of the night and day to come. Yet, in that silence was hope. A little glowing thing, sheltered between the two of them against drafts, a sudden calm between one storm abated and another anxiously anticipated.

Given a reprieve from utter destruction, even the night sounds held their breath in the wake of a second chance. Waiting to determine if this chance was real, and weighing the chance against a thousand possible doomsday scenarios. 

A cricket chirped, interrupting the silence, a chance to offer a hesitantly-accepted shelter, a fragile, cautious thing.

A bus ride, silent but for the constant thrum of the engine, life and movement buzzing under their seats and all around them. Two seated side by side, hands clasped, an anchor six thousand years in the making, a careful weaving together of immortal lives and stories and feelings, no longer solely bridged by humanity, finally reaching one another.


	7. Day 7 - Stars/Night Sky

“Which of those did you say you made, my dear?” Aziraphale gestured broadly to the glittering expanse above them, refilling their mugs of cocoa from a (new, unconsecrated, still tartan) thermos. “It must have taken a long time, there are just so many of them.”

Crowley grimaced. “Eeehhhh, like you said, angel. There are so many, it’d take an _ age _ just to get through the ones humans know the names of. It's not _ that _interesting.” Still, the way his eyes lit up showed Aziraphale that he was definitely interested in sharing.

Aziraphale shook his head. “_You _ like them though, don’t you? You could tell me about your favourites.”

“Favourites? Do you have favourite books in your bookshop, angel? I’m sure you have ones you like_ less_, but that’s like asking a mum to pick her favourite child, yeah? They’re not _ children_, of course, they’re flaming balls of gas, but-” Crowley stopped himself rambling with a strangled noise. “You know what I mean.”

Aziraphale just watched with increasing amusement as he spoke, raising an eyebrow as if to ask _ is that all? _

“I don’t want to bore you, angel.”

“Oh, my dear Crowley. You couldn’t bore me.”

Crowley glanced at his serious expression and shifted where he sat, suddenly embarrassed. “Well. I could tell you about a few, if you’re sure.”

Aziraphale smiled beatifically, raising his mug of miracled-warm cocoa. “I have all night.”

Crowley slowly started naming stars and pointing them out, setting his glasses aside in order to carefully pick out the smallest ones. He hadn’t made all of them, it was true, but Aziraphale just watched as they all reflected in Crowley’s amber eyes and it was like he had lovingly crafted them just for him. Aziraphale’s heart melted to see Crowley’s expression shift into one of satisfaction and well-deserved pride in his former work. He leaned back on his arms, more watching Crowley’s face and animated gestures rather than the darkened sky.

“-and that one’s just a little bit smaller, but you can see in the way that the colour is slightly different and it’s just a bit brighter… angel, are you even paying attention?" Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale and his brain came to a stop at just how close he’d gotten, now just a few inches away. "Ngk-"

“I’m paying attention.” Aziraphale looked at him, a sweet look of affection completely unguarded on his face, starlight reflected in his blue eyes.

“I -ngk- yu-uuueeh- you, you, you have to look at the sky to see what I mean, angel, you’re not- you’re not even looking-” He waved his arm in a vaguely upward direction.

Aziraphale leaned in just a bit, his hand coming up to brush Crowley’s cheekbone, near his eye. “I _ am _ looking, Crowley. I can see all the stars I need right here.”

“Ngk-” Crowley repeated, as Aziraphale continued to lean in until their lips brushed. Crowley surged forward, the kiss a spark that burst his entire body into a conflagration of pent-up affection. He pressed Aziraphale back, back, until he was lying on their picnic blanket, oblivious to anything in the quiet park except the feel of lips and tongue. Pressing closer as Aziraphale’s arms came up to encircle him, a soft hand burying into ginger hair and pulling, Crowley’s spine arching back with a gasp as a spark surged through from his scalp to his toes.

“Hahh, angel, you-”

“Hush now, my dear. I enjoy seeing you so passionate about things.”

“Aziraphale, I-”

“I promise. I’m not bored in the slightest.” Aziraphale_ meant it_, beyond mere stars or words about them. Nothing about Crowley could ever be boring.

“I love you.” It tore out of him like a gasp, a lungful of crisp, clean air after millennia of holding his breath. Crowley teared up with the surprise and the sheer need of it.

“I love you too, my darling.” Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled with joy and a smile that lit up his entire face like a sun and that - _ that _ \- was Crowley’s favourite creation.


End file.
